


This Night Is Wild, So Calm and Dull

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Kiss, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 03:46:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10801041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: Clarke is so sure that Bellamy isn't the boyfriend type that when he kisses her, and it's sweet and gentle and soft, she's more taken aback by the careful way he lets his palm rest against her cheek than by the kiss itself.





	This Night Is Wild, So Calm and Dull

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Hands Down by Dashboard Confessional.

Among Clarke's idle thoughts, sometimes as she watches Bellamy walking through camp, or giving orders, or standing watch; and sometimes alone, at night, while she stares up into the red-dark shadows of her tent ceiling, is: Bellamy would not be the type of boyfriend who likes to hold hands. It's a silly thought. Bellamy is also not the type of person who becomes a boyfriend in the first place. And she's not the type, either, to form vague romantic fantasies—certainly not about assholes like him. 

He's probably the type who barely acknowledges the relationship. He's probably the type who's gruff in public, not demonstrative; who maybe, every now and then, will place a hand to her back just to let someone else know: _hey, she's taken_ , and that's all. But then in private he's harsh kisses and sex standing up, her back against the wall, her legs around his waist. Biting kisses instead of sweet kisses. And not a talker. Not a sweet talker, not much for words at all. 

She's so sure of all of this that when he does kiss her, and it _is_ sweet, and gentle, and soft, she's more taken aback by the careful way he lets his palm rest against her cheek than by the kiss itself. She doesn’t quite kiss back. But she doesn’t pull away. So for a long moment they just sit there side by side next to the dying fire, their knees touching, their lips touching, statue-still like they’re posing for a tableau. 

Then Bellamy pulls away, and just stares at her, blinking slowly. 

Clarke feels suddenly certain that he’s going to say that he made a mistake. A mistake of identity. As if he’d thought somehow, in the dark, that she was someone else.  

What he actually says is, "I guess I misread those signals," which is enough to jolt Clarke back to herself, so hard she gets whiplash just trying to reach out for his hands.  

"No—no, you didn't. I was just surprised." 

His hands are big and they feel square and hard under hers: hands that have worked hard, skin cracked with autumn cold and calloused with experience and wear. Hers aren't much better but they're smaller and more slight and she knows his hands could swallows hers right up, if he wanted them to. 

"Surprised," Bellamy echoes. His voice is too flat for the word to be a question. 

They'd been talking camp logistics for over an hour, everyone else except the night shift guards safely asleep in their tents. As the conversation continued, and the night air grew more chill, they'd started to move closer together, instinctively seeking out each other’s warmth. Finally, they were so close that their legs pressed together: an accidental contact both inconsequential and unexpectedly intimate. Neither mentioned it and neither drew away. They tried to keep talking, just as they had been before, but their words faltered. The pauses between them grew into silences. And finally she'd confessed that she was tired, but she didn't mean tired liked she wanted to sleep but tired as in _afraid_ , tired as in _overwhelmed_ , tired as in _uncertain_ —uncertain of everything. He'd pressed his hand against her knee in reassurance and said that he was too, but it was okay. 

And all she could think about was his hand on her leg. 

"At least we have each other," she answered, finally. The fire cracked, devoured another of the old, dead branches they’d fed it, and spit up another flicker of flame. Her words almost got lost in the sound. 

Bellamy's too: "I really—couldn't do this without you." 

Clarke looked up at him, watched the light and shadows from the fire play across his face, traced the features she’d never examined quite this closely or this carefully before. The freckles dusting over his nose. The softness around his eyes. And she wanted, suddenly and fiercely, nothing more than to hold him close in the tightest and most human hug that she could manage. But as she was wondering just how to do it, how to discreetly wrap her arms around his waist or rest her head against his chest, he leaned in for the kiss instead. 

"Yes," she says, now. "Surprised. Not in a bad way." 

He doesn't answer, like he can’t quite, but he turns his hand around so it’s holding hers, and she feels the tight squeeze of his fingers like a million words unsaid. 

“Hey,” she tries again, nudging his shoulder this time and forcing a little smile. "Hey, come on. If you try again, I'll kiss back." 

The corner of his mouth twitches up. "Always trying to get me to do all the work, aren't you? How about if _you_ kiss _me_ , then _I'll_ kiss back?" 

It's not exactly an unfair request. She lets go of his hands and instead presses her cool palms to his cheeks and pulls him in, presses her lips to his in a square insistent kiss that, this time and true to his word, he immediately returns. A real kiss this time. His lips are chapped and rough, the sort of detail that never works its way into fantasies, and their knees knock together gracelessly when they try to move closer, like their bodies don’t quite know yet how to fit together in the way they should. But when she feels his hand on the back of her neck, fingers tangling up in her hair, holding her steady while she opens her mouth to his, that doesn’t matter. It does not matter that she could not have predicted this. It’s _better_ that he is unexpected, that the angles of him and the sounds he makes and the rhythm of each slight movement of tongue and shifting pressure of lips is not the stuff of daydreams. And it is better, too, that each detail drowns out the next so that she will never be able to play these moments over again, later, as they actually were. She can only be here in this moment. 

She’s losing herself in his sweet, insistent kiss, drawn to him and she never wants to let go. He feels it too. He _must_ feel it too. They’re so _attracted_ to each other, simply and purely pulled toward each other. Even when they part, it's only to come together again, a series of short kisses like they cannot stand to be apart for even a few moments at a time. Clarke kisses his cheek, once, because she feels airy and light and like this might be allowed now, small gesture that it is, and then Bellamy pulls her close again with his arm around her waist, and kisses her forehead and then into her hair, and buries his nose in the spot above her ear. He's so close that she can feel his lungs expand as he breathes in. 

She closes her eyes and breathes him in too. Her nose is squashed against his neck. He smells like sweat and fire. His skin is cold. 

"Bellamy?" she asks, finally, into the space between his heartbeats.  

"Mmm?" 

"Have you—" She clears her throat, pauses a moment. "Have you ever been in a real relationship?" 

He laughs and she feels another kiss, unexpected, right to the tip of her ear. "That's forward of you." 

"That’s forward of _you_ ,” she counters. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just asking a question.” 

He doesn't answer for a long time. She turns her head to watch the fire flicker lower, the bright shots of sharp yellow that occasionally flare. The question was just idle curiosity (she remembers all those silly fantasies she sometimes spins), but even with his arm around her, she starts to wonder if it was a mistake.  

"If you don't want to answer—" 

"No." 

Bellamy's hand is rubbing slowly up and down her back, like he's trying to warm her up, maybe. Or like he's trying to remind himself she's real. 

"‘No’ you don't want to answer or...?" 

"No, I've never been in a real relationship." 

"Neither have I." 

Sometimes, she's not even sure she'd know what a real relationship was, even if she were in one. When she tries to picture it, she thinks of partnership; she thinks of relying on someone and not being afraid. She thinks of instinctual trust, and of closeness that cannot be defined or limited.  

She turns to look at Bellamy in the darkness, tracing his profile by the firelight, the curve of his ear and the set of his jaw. She watches him for a long time, wonders what he’s thinking, and realizes she cannot even guess. 

Then he slides his arm around her waist and clears his throat and asks, “So _do_ you want—?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He tenses, and for a second Clarke’s certain he’s about to pull away. Maybe he does know. Maybe it’s quite simple for him, knowing. 

“I just—” she tries again. “I do know I want to know more about you. I want…more of this.” 

“More of this like more kissing and talking and making the rules?” 

He’s glancing down at her, a first bit of smile edging into his expression. And that’s enough. She nods, because that’s exactly what she means: more of his arm around her, more huddling together for warmth as the fire burns down, more knowing she can look to him, when everyone’s looking at her, and the other way around, too. 

“Yeah. Maybe more kissing especially.” 

Bellamy pulls her almost into his lap, presses his lips into her hair and whispers, “I guess it’s a start.” 

* 

Everyone gets the wrong impression when they emerge from Clarke’s tent the next morning, holding hands. But they refuse to answer questions.  

Later, as Bellamy assembles his hunting party, calling out names in his strident leader’s voice, Clarke can’t help watching him, playing last night’s memories over in her mind as she does. How gentle his features looked in the firelight. How his thumb passed slowly back and forth over her skin when they held hands. That under-his-breath exhale when he said _it’s a start_ , the sound so unexpected and soft. 

Still she’s sure, watching him stride toward the gate—gun over his shoulder, so broad and strong—that he could pin her easily against the dropship wall if he wanted to. He could lift her right off her feet if he cared to. And that wouldn’t be too bad at all.  

Might be fun.  

Maybe someday she’ll even ask him to try. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/) and sometimes I make links that actually work.


End file.
